Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Omaha is one of those places you visit that makes you think, I could live here. People are friendly, it's laid back, there are quaint record stores and even quainter coffee shops, the food is tasty, the city is green and then... then there is the music. And it's everywhere. It's in the trees. It hides in the wrinkles of the people who live there. It creaks from the hinges on every door.

So many bands I love have sprouted from Omaha. The music, like the city, feels like home. It feels like driving down an old familiar street and getting a quick pang of excitement because you're almost there. It feels like walking around barefooted in wet grass and on scratchy roads. It's like knowing you can sleep all summer, and waking up to the smell of waffles. The Omaha Sound feels like summer's first sunburn. And one band that precipitates these feelings for me is Cursive. Lucky me. They are bringing a little piece of Omaha to Salt Lake City tomorrow night.

Monday, June 29, 2009

This morning, when I couldn't squeeze into any of my pants, I started regretting all the Big Macs and dark beer I've been consuming over the last few weeks. I've had an insatiable appetite as of late and it's catching up with me. I think I do this every summer; sabotage any chance of going to the pool. Despite having the flu last week, I think I managed to put on 12 pounds.

Speaking of regrets, I heard a lot of 'em last week. So instead of continuing to stare blankly at a growing pile of tootsie roll wrappers, I thought I'd write some of them down, ahem, type them up. Down, up, whatever.

"I am already regretting my outfit."

"I have been regretting last night's Beto's all morning."

"I regret wearing the same clothes to work two days in a row, without a bra."

"I've pretty much been regretting every decision I made since 9 o'clock last night."

The thing about regrets though, is that they don't seem to stop us from doing anything. Consequences stop us. Regrets hardly detour us. Regrets are like the ultimate disclaimer: I regret to inform you (but I'm going to anyway). It's essentially apologizing in advance. I am sorry I have to do this but... I do. I am going to regret drinking this whiskey, gulp. Don't make me regret this relationship. I already do.

I can say, with sincerity, that I have made one decision in my life that I truly regret. Everything else I'd probably do again. Because I have happy regrets. My mistakes make me who I am, too.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Whew. I survived the weekend. Sure did. And it was a blast. Here is a short recap with pictures! Heeeehhhh!

I found out that my grandma definitely needs me around, but kinda likes me around too.

I found my Drunk that had been lost for about 2 months and 3 weeks. He came back to me at the Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band show. Of course this adorableness was before the debauchery started, and while we still had dates to take our pictures. (And don't pass by the little guy with his fancy mustache on the right. He was trouble!)

The show was just as expected, fabulous. Conor and his cronies immediately started playing new songs with the ferocity as if they were trying to heat the cold audience with their energy. The dynamics on the stage were almost too built-in, as if they were planned before the band's inception. But they weren't. At all. Conor never knew the Mystic Valley Band would come to be, or how it would work. He left on a trip to Mexico to write a solo album and ended up plucking friends out of their own lives to join him. This sort of patchwork assembly of the band makes me love it even more. Hearing the froggy and adorable Taylor Hollingsworth croak out a few songs was great. And I love watching Nate Walcott--a permanent fixture in any Oberst project--plinking on keyboards as he stares at the crowd, unfazed and expressionless if not a little perplexed. It was excellent. Bliss and pure innocent happiness.

I am not sure when I decided to let go of the reins. But I did. And, okay, sure, I did trip over Gina's lawn chairs and fall headfirst into mud to save the beer I had in one hand and the wine I had in the other... and I may have been wearing a white sweater when I went down. HARD. And I ate it, right there in front of about 100 people. And my date was SO embarrassed, he was like, "Really? This is really happening right now? Ugh." He was trying to help me up and I couldn't believe he was so composed. I would have been on the ground, laughing hysterically. He just helped me up and brushed me off a little, and looked at my once white sweater, now completely sprayed with red wine and Cutthroat. Sigh. I was still giggling.

The funniest part about the story is that Megan was with our friend a little ways away and she couldn't stop laughing because "someone had tripped over our lawn chairs." Silence. "It was Carly." Exponentially more laughter.

This is where things started getting a little starry. I do remember thinking, in the words of Matt Berninger, I'm on a good mixture, I don't want to waste it. And for awhile, it was perfect. The mixture of the sun reluctantly sliding behind the mountains, the dew from the rain lingering, and the lights on the stage... The mixture reminded me of warm, wet summer nights. Being on the grass with so many of my favorite people, having someone put their arms around you and love you in that moment, watching perhaps my favorite singer-songwriter ever, WITH a glass of wine AND a glass of beer. Ya, I can't beat that mixture. And I do not want to waste it. So... let's go sprint to the clubs and start dancing, being in photo shoots, drinking, and such. Because that was the pinnacle and we are on the downward spiral.

We had a great time. We really did. Dancing was super fun and although Cody ran from us at the end of the night, it was still a success. A long walk home, lesbian blankets, pot stickers, moldy pita quesadillas, the big white bowl you sit in, and more... it was sweet.

The next day we initiated Smokin' Sundays at the studio with pulled pork sandwiches so... sounds like a pretty good summer to me! Next Sunday: brisket. Yay!

A couple of other things I found this weekend:1. My sister's old Bronco II. Ohhh, the memories. She's still on the road, folks! Yesssss.

2. An accidental softball picture for my heart throb companion:

Still Missing:My car keysMy cameraMy dignity

It's a start. I realize this is a disconnected entry, I really wanted to remember more about the mustaches and the gum throws... I guess I just wanted to convey the feeling of freedom and happiness we had running around and being with each other. It was nice. Hmmmm. I guess that's it. Rest in peace, beautiful white sweater..... Rest in peace.....

Friday, June 19, 2009

The peaceful demonstration chanting "God is Great" has filled the streets of Iran and continues to build. Millions, even, protesting, creating a revolution, standing on their own two feet, to overturn a controversial election. It's scary and hopeful to watch. Two of my favorite people (the cute intern and my big sis) sent me news articles that reported Twitter as one of the channels being used to organize the rallies and coordinate protests. The emphasis, in my mind, is more on the activism of people and communication than the messaging service itself. Sooo, the tweets about how much you love donkeys are still lame. Sorry. (Neither the cute intern or my sister are on Twitter.)

First of all, it's great that people are getting involved on a global scale. If it's helpful. Is it? I don't know. The flow of communication is obviously favorable in this situation. The days of censorship are over, maybe? How much support do I offer and how much do I really know as the truth? If I join an online group, how am I helping? Does that make me an activist? Or am I just jumping on the bandwagon?

I think, more importantly, it is awesome that "we" get to watch people in action changing the world they live in. Social activism being something that, in my opinion, my generation studies and even appreciates that our predecessors did for us, but none of us will ever experience. Some of us still don't vote in our own elections. I can appreciate that we are connected with the ability to pull together for a good cause. And I believe being informed makes us smarter.

My support (for now) will be to keep my love for hotdogs off the Twitter feed so those using it effectively (activists, programmers, local freedom fighters, the State Department, whomever) can continue communicating. And in the meantime, I can listen and learn more about Iran's situation to see if I really can help. It's easy to pithily say something online. Do it. Or at least make sure you're willing to do it for your own situation. Just think first. It's not about you. It's not about me. There is a rather articulate blog entry about how online media is impacting the situation at Iran Protests: It’s not about Twitter, it’s not about us. Check it out.

Of less importance, I played two softball games tonight and I literally can't move my legs because they hurt so bad. I feel like a jerk complaining because I love playing softball, I am physically able to, and I get to come home and sleep next to my beautiful daughter in a warm, safe bed. But they hurt damn bad--the legs. And we got killed in the second game.

I drove to Omaha last year to see Bright Eyes play at The Waiting Room. It was awesome. (The show--not the driving, the speeding ticket, the deterioration of a friendship, or the incurred debt.) I would do it again. Google the drive from Utah to Nebraska. Obviously, I love Conor for more than just fathering my child.

I also got front row seats to see Bright Eyes at Kingsbury Hall that coincided with a work-related event in Vegas. I went to Vegas, worked, paid $700 to fly to Salt Lake on Saturday night at 6pm, watched the show, and flew back by 7am Sunday morning... only to catch my return flight back to Salt Lake the very same day. Again... TOTALLY worth it.

I hope this Saturday is another life-changing moment for me. I have a totally hot date (no lie), and I'm pretty sure we're going to be members of the Mystic Valley Band by the end of the show... satin jackets and all.

Monday, June 15, 2009

I love Dr. Phil. I do. I think he's adorable, logical, charming, and witty. Granted, he's gone a little Jerry Springer-ish but that just signifies that the world is running out of legitimate problems. I would just love to have lunch with him, or maybe be on an Amazing Race team with him. Tonight, I was trying to find my hidden bottle of wine when my grandma yelled at me and told me I needed to come watch Dr. Phil because it was MADE for me; he had the answer to my problem on tonight! (Uh, yeah, he usually does.) I thought it was going to be about paying bills. We all know I don't pay my bills... not for lack of money, I just "hate paying bills" as Gram puts it. Ah, she knows me well.

Anyway, the title of tonight's show is "What's Wrong with Men?" The obvious problem with the men on the show was the women on the show. I mean, some people just shouldn't be together. I wish Dr. Phil would have invited me on the show. Not because I know what's wrong with men, but I know what's wrong with me--the men I pick. (See? I am soooo Dr. Phil ready!) There was like a group of bitter cougars and then a group of self-proclaimed jerks. Then there was a group of sloppy, dirty, lazy, married people that never have sex and have like 27 kids under the age of 12. Well, duh. What's wrong with men? What's wrong with people?

I bet the married couples were like, "you're crazy, stay single." And the single couples were like, "oh shit! I like my single life!" And The Fonz was like, "Heyyyy." I guess the moral of the story is: Move to Vegas and find a good pimp.

A couple of years ago, I was dating a basketball player. Don't get me wrong--I knew it was a bad idea. But I definitely liked watching him play basketball and I liked using his tickets and okay, I even liked taunting his "groupies." (Sorry, I am the first to admit that I was an immature asshole.) But the "relationship" was a complete disaster. I mean, more disastrous than usual. But I wasn't really emotionally into it, I laughed about the absurdity of it all. He was SUPER tall and SUPER hot and a complete demon. And I was 10 years older than him. I just liked crawling all over him, having him pick me up with one arm, and laughing at his (sometimes) funny jokes. And then other times, underneath his 6'6", 220 lbs, gansta facade, he revealed that he had a heart. He did. It was tiny, black and shriveled up but... we both got exactly what we wanted out of the relationship. Anyway, I digress. My point being: my sisters, so help me, bought me the Dr. Phil book, Love Smart : Find the One You Want--Fix the One You Got. Ha ha! I know, I know! I will read it one day. I sure will! It's just not that I'm really in a hurry to settle down. I want to fall in love and sometimes I trick myself into thinking that I am. But I just want someone to be quiet with. I don't want to get married. I just want to love someone and have them look at me like, hey, I love you too. Let's make out.

I don't admit it to many people, but I really, really, really am a hopeless romantic. I remember being in Jr. High under the bright Pony League baseball lights and literally having stars in my eyes... being completely, innocently in love with a boy. And all he had to do was kick off his muddy cleats, watch a movie with me and hold my 13 year-old hand to make me dizzy with happiness. Is it so wrong that I want to look across a room and feel those same pure feelings? So maybe now he's tattooed and shy but still has a smile reserved just for me. That's all. Simplicity. No analyzing. No trying to guess what's going on. No hang ups on the after life. No deep discussions about where we've been. Just holding hands and heading into the future. Is that too much to ask? I am terrified of getting too old to be capable of young love. I want to look at pictures when I'm 50 and see two young, beautiful people madly in love. I don't want a picture of me lovingly emptying "his" catheter on our second date or coffee stained smiles when we hit Walmart to get our blood pressures taken on Tuesdays.

Last weekend, my mother was in town. She was asking my daughter and me for advice on an outfit for her date. My daughter (without hesitation) said, "What? Nana can get a date and YOU can't?!" Insulting to both my mother and me, yes, but funny.

I mean, I guess I could go looking for love... but isn't true love supposed to find you? And I still need to figure out what "true love" even means. I know what it sounds like (music), I know what it feels like (first kisses), I just don't know what to do with it (spaz history). I bet Dr. Phil could give me these answers. I'm gonna go find him.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

I've never tried Twitter and I don't have herpes. But I plan to avoid both forever.

I am growing increasingly annoyed with the twitterers. Mostly because twits (i.e.Type A personalities) think they are super important. If you look "twit" up in the dictionary, it's pretty self explanatory (and kinda ironic):

twit (twĭt) tr.v. twit·ted, twit·ting, twitsTo taunt, ridicule, or tease, especially for embarrassing mistakes or faults. See Synonyms at ridicule.n. 1. The act or an instance of twitting.2. A reproach, gibe, or taunt.3. Slang A foolishly annoying person.

This one is my favorite and, in my opinion, the most accurate:

twit [twit]–noun Informal.an insignificant or bothersome person.

Duh. If I want to know what my friends are doing every second, I'll call them. I'll even consider email. I am so over the psychology and egos behind the social networking world. If you're important enough to have a following, I recommend you find a way to make it work for your bank account, not your self esteem. Yay you!

I recently deleted my Facebook account. It's a small step to rid myself of the online epidemic replacing real life. I am confident that the people in my life that I want to stay in touch with will get a hold of me. If someone is getting married, having a baby, breaking up with their boyfriend, or taking a shit... let's assume they'll call me if I rrrreally need to know about it.

I bet Pau Gasol has herpes (and bad breath). And Dwight Howard has the most awesome muscles. Ever. And I put my electric blanket back on my bed because I'm cold. I bought a book today. I'm going to read it right now. I love myself. It's June. I miss somebody. I am hungry. Cameltoes are tough. I think they make tires out of them. Blah blah blah twit twit twat.

I will come for you at nighttimeI will raise you from your sleepI will kiss you in four placesAs I go running along your streetI will squeeze the life out of youYou will make me laugh and make me cryAnd we will never forget it

You will make me call your nameAnd I'll shout it to the blue summer skyAnd we may never meet againSo shed your skin and let's get startedAnd you will throw your arms around meYeah, you will throw your arms around me

I dreamed of you at nighttimeAnd I watched you in your sleepI met you in high placesI touched your head and touched your feetSo if you disappear out of viewYou know I will never say goodbyeAnd though I try to forget it

You will make me call your nameAnd I'll shout it to the blue summer sky...And we may never meet again...So shed your skin and let's get startedAnd you will throw your arms around meYeah, you will throw your arms around me

You will throw your arms around me...Yeah, you will throw your arms around me....

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

I have been extraordinarily blessed with amazing friends in my life. And I am very careful to keep those friendships in a lock box in my heart. The older we get it seems harder to make a sincere connection with someone. I typically make closer bonds with men. Not sure why. Don't get me wrong, I have amazing girl friends, but I seem to connect with guys much more quickly.

One of those friends used to call me his "heart throb companion." He wrote me stories that made me laugh and cry. He is one of the best writers I know. For three years we had an ongoing fantasy world where Eddie Vedder was his maid and my ex-boyfriend. The details that went into his daily reports were unbelievably funny and entertaining. I think we both started to believe that Eddie really was locked in his woodshed. Anyway, my friend lives far away and I haven't talked to him in years. We've emailed but that's it. I am going to call him after I finish this post.

Today I found my journal and there was a letter from him. Written in 2006, it was an update on his life as we had been out of touch for awhile. He had gotten married, moved to a forest, and was a ghost writer. But something in his letter brought tears to my eyes and it went like this:

"... And oddly...I have not written a famous book yet...or an (un)famous one. Though you may be pleased to know that I did write a poem for you. I remember looking out my apartment window in Vancouver when you and Gina were smoking a fatty on the balcony. I wrote it that weekend.

Naturally I just hunted around for it...and lo and behold...I found it. And you'll have to forgive the poems perception...it was an "if" poem. Or "best case scenario" poem. Anyway it goes like this:

... You have a gentleness about you. And this is where I may be totally off base...I did get the impression that you wanted a soft place to land. Meaning...you wanted to find someone who totally understood what you were all about. Essentially...what makes Carly...Carly? And to do it unconditionally. With grace.

... Someone who wouldn't criticize you...or be mean etc...someone who would rub your feet at the end of the day...someone who would love all the querks, that again..were unique to you. Someone that would hold your hand when you went on walks...someone who was proud of you and wanted to show you off. And I really wanted to "get" or understand you. That is why I use to love calling you...because I got to listen."

Reading this made me smile. And then tears came. Because I don't think I fully appreciated it at the time, and I think that he might be the only person who ever really "got" me. We never had a romantic relationship. Never tried. We were friends. But I sure love him. And I wish I could see him. I have a feeling I will. Soon.

The last time I opened my heart to the possibility of a relationship it turned into exactly what I feared: a phase. I was a part of a cycle or phase that he was going through. I always knew that would be the case but I wanted to believe differently. I wanted to believe that, at the risk of being judged, he would make a permanent place for me in his life. But even the moon has phases. And I have to accept his. And I have to start a new one for myself. And I am totally ready for the next phase in my life.

Now that I have found you...I am not really all that keen to have you slip away.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

He is a giant man with a giant, gurgle-y voice. And I think he is made out of wax. He also (indirectly) caused me to have a meltdown at Albertsons that resulted in me being escorted out by security.

The reason I will never be successful in corporate america is because:

a. I will never ask anyone to do something I am not willing to do.b. I will never use people as a means for my own success or career advancement.c. I have a vagina.d. I won't kiss ass.

Do I sound bitter? Because I totally am. Coming off a four day event that almost killed me made me realize how ridiculous some people are. I am so over it, I need a new word for over.

The upside is that I have amazing co-workers and I was able to witness some hilarity that included someone being kicked in the shin and told to fu*k off, an extraordinary use of the world "dildo", and a double foot rub by two boys that made me blush.

The up UP side is that it's over and now I can focus on Chloe, myself, my boyfriend, and summer.